


Silent Partner

by YumYumPM



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 05:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumYumPM/pseuds/YumYumPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally Titled ‘The Day After the Night Before’ <br/>From YumYumPM Collected</p><p>Just suppose, your partner lost his memory and did something you would never have thought he would do.  Then he gets his memory back.  How do you explain what happened?  How will he react?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Partner

He opened his eye, the only one that was working. His eye wondered around the room. One glance around showed him a strange ceiling, strange walls, a strange room, a strange bed. Where was he? Was this a hospital room? Accessing his body, his arms, his legs – everything seemed to be functioning except for one hand wrapped in bandages and one of his eyes. His hands went to his head. More bandages – pain. Something was wrong - very, very wrong. 

A man dressed in a white coat approached the bed, his eyes on the chart in his hand, and started speaking. Nothing made sense. It sounded like gibberish, not a word did he understand. 

Dr. Andrew Bennett greeted his patient with a warm smile. “Welcome back, Mr. Kuryakin. It’s nice to see you conscious for a change.” His eyes drifted to his patient's face and he frowned as he noticed Illya’s uncomprehending look. “You do understand what I am saying?” he asked slowly.

His patient was looking at him strangely. He knew this man and this reaction was not normal. He looked almost - bewildered. Not a good sign. 

“O-o-o-o-kay,” he said doubtfully, then he tried to smile encouragingly and patted Illya on the shoulder. He backed away cautiously, and reached for the phone. “Get me Mr. Waverly, pronto,” he ordered, as he nodded and continued to smile at the man lying on the bed. Once the connection was made, he turned away. 

“Sir, I’m afraid we have a problem. Perhaps it would be best if you and Mr. Solo came down.” He glanced back and dropped the phone. Kuryakin, his manner one of panic, was trying to get out of the bed. “Nurse! Nurse!” he shouted as he did his best to grip Kuryakin by the shoulders and push him back on the bed. 

A nurse appeared at the door. In an instant, she took in the situation, before beating a swift retreat. Quickly she returned to the room, frantically she plunged a syringe into a vial, removed it and gave it a quick flick. Hurrying to the doctor’s side, she quickly found a vein, and then injected the contents into Illya’s arm. In a matter of moments Kuryakin gave up fighting, his eyes rolled back and closed as he drifted off back to oblivion.

**

Napoleon Solo sat in his office, trying to concentrate on the open folder on his desk. It had been almost a year since his partner had gone missing and given up for dead. Recently by some chance of good fortune, he'd been found and returned to the fold. Unfortunately, Napoleon been unable to concentrate since Kuryakin had been brought in. A million questions swirled through his mind, making it extremely difficult for him to focus on the task at hand. Where had Illya been all this time? What had been done to him? Why hadn’t he been able to do anything about it? Of course, he knew why – Waverly had forbidden it - it just rankled. The worse was wondering why he believed his partner dead so easily? Why? Why? Why?

The phone on his desk rang, shattering his lack of concentration.

“Solo here.”

“Mr. Solo, your immediate presence is required in the infirmary,” Alexander Waverly voiced gruffly.

“I’ll be there right way.” Excitement coursed through him in spite of Mr. Waverly's curt order. Napoleon shoved his chair back and hurried out the door the moment he hung up. Except for a brief glimpse when the Russian Agent arrived by ambulance into U.N.C.L.E.'s headquarters, Solo had not been allowed near him. The fact that he was placed in isolation was the only reason that Napoleon hadn't fought the order.

Napoleon met Waverly at the door to Illya’s room. Entering together, Waverly approached the doctor. “What is the verdict, Doctor Bennett?”

“We cannot find anything physically wrong with him,” Bennett stated. “However, it appears he does not understand anything that is said to him.”

“Considering the head injury, not unusual I would think,” Waverly said.

Napoleon, his eyes on his partner, listened to the conversation with one ear. Illya had arrived unconscious. At the time, his blond hair was a tad longer than usual and discolored by a mass of brown clotted blood, his face unshaven, his clothing in tatters. Now he’d been cleaned up, a bandage covered his eye, his hair was now clean and trimmed.

It had been hard enough to come back from a routine assignment to find out that his partner missing, but then he hadn’t been given access to anything pertaining to Illya’s mission. Nor was he allowed to help in any way. “You’re too close. Too personally involved to be objective,” Waverly had claimed. So, it had been two other agents who had accidentally stumbled upon the Russian after six months of searching. Bringing him home to U.N.C.L.E.

“Perhaps we should get someone from communications to speak with him,” Napoleon entered the conversation. “Someone knowledgeable with several languages.”

“An excellent idea, Mr. Solo,” Waverly approved. “Any suggestions as to whom?”

“Well, Marie Levell in translations springs to mind,” Napoleon replied.

 

Marie Levell’s background was almost as diverse as U.N.C.L.E.’s. She could honestly claim to be descended from French, German, Italian, Spanish, and English ancestors, with even a Russian snuck in somewhere. In her early thirties, she could keep the translations department in stitches with her tales of how this grandparent met that grandparent, and the great-aunt who had twelve children. They called her the United Nation’s aunt, since no two children had the same father, except of course for the twins. Her family, for the most part, was close knit so she could speak a myriad of languages almost before she could walk, which she did with the aid of a crutch.

Marie Levell arrived within five minutes of being requested. Dark hair and eyes, she nodded as she said, “Mr. Waverly, Doctor Bennett. Hello, Napoleon. What’s up?”

“Marie, Doctor Bennett seems to feel that Illya …” Napoleon paused before continuing. “Illya doesn’t seem to understand English.”

“Huh?” Marie asked, disbelief written on her face.

Napoleon made an answering face and shrugged. “Just talk to him. Use every language you’ve got, okay?”

He watched intently as Marie limped over to the bed. A nurse had given Illya a shot and he was awake again. He watched Illya sit up and give Marie a shy smile. Then he had to turn his attention back to Waverly and Bennett.

“Head injuries are difficult to understand,” Bennett stated.

Waverly sighed. “Doctor, we know all this. Is there anything new you can add?”

Before Bennett could reply, Marie was back. She shrugged apologetically, making her report to Solo. “Sorry. Nothing. Nada, zilch.”

“Miss Levell, could you kindly speak English,” Waverly requested irritably.

Turning to Alexander Waverly, she said, “I tried every language I know. He showed no signs of understanding any.” 

“Ukrainian?” Napoleon suggested.

“Ukrainian? Well, it’s not one of my better languages, but I’ll give it a try,” Marie replied before turning back to the Russian. 

In faltering Ukrainian, Marie sat beside Illya on the bed and said, “Hello, my name is Marie.” 

Illya’s eyes lit up. At last, someone he could understand.

“Do you know where you are?” Marie asked gently.

He considered the question. Hospital? Perhaps. But where? He shook his head no.

“Do you recognize anyone in this room?”

Illya tilted his head and looked around the room. His eyes lingered on each in turn, the man in white, obviously a doctor – no. The elderly man – again no. The dark-haired younger man – no. His eyes returned to Marie, who he could understand – no. With resignation, he shook his head -no again.

“Do you know who you are?”

He looked down concentrating. No name came to him, everything was a complete blank. Realization of that frightened him as he looked back up and again shook his head no.

“It’s okay,” Marie said, patting his arm maternally. She smiled encouragingly before going back to the three men. “Well, he understands Ukrainian, but he doesn’t know who he is, where he is at, or who any of us are.” She turned to Solo. “Not even you.”

A nurse entered the room and handed a clipboard to the doctor.

“If you don’t need me for anything else, you know where to find me,” Marie called as she left the room.

Napoleon kept an eye on his partner, trying to keep his concern from showing. Illya’s eyes followed the one person he could understand as she left. His lower lip trembled, and his eyes blinked as he tried to hold back tears. It was a reaction so unlike the usual stoic Russian that, without a thought as to what he was doing, Napoleon went to the bed and pulled the younger man close, muttering as he patted him on the back. “There, there. It’s okay.” 

Solo was rocking the younger man, comforting him. Alexander Waverly noted his senior agent’s odd reaction, but said nothing. Turning to Bennett, he asked. “Is there anything new?”

“We have the toxicology report. No drugs in his system. But, considering how long he was missing, that means nothing. He was fed intravenously though,” Bennett said thoughtfully as he ruffled through the papers clipped to the chart.

“So they did not want him dead,” Waverly muttered to himself before asking, “What about the head wound?” 

“Typical trauma caused by a blunt instrument,” Bennett stated. “In my opinion, definitely the reason for the memory loss.” 

***

During the following days, Napoleon kept his interaction with his partner to a minimum. He didn’t know what possessed him to console the young Russian, whom he had held close until Illya had finally stopped trembling and fallen asleep. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed by his behavior, unusual as it may have been. It was more like puzzled by it. 

This lasted until Marie bearded him in his office. Marie had been assigned to be mother hen to the injured agent, a job that she took seriously. She made sure he ate three good meals a day, and exercised. She brought him books, played chess with him, and talked to him.

“You’ve been avoiding him,” she accused.

“I have not,” Napoleon stated emphatically. “I see him at least once a day.”

“When he’s awake?” Marie demanded.

Napoleon looked down, his expression one of discomfort, his voice low. “It doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t know who I am.”

“It does too matter.” Marie leaned over the desk, insisting. “He is not the same Kuryakin that he was. It is almost as if he’s a child. He’s sweet, kind and…innocent. He can be hurt…I’ve seen it whenever your name is mentioned.”

Napoleon looked up sharply. “I thought he didn’t know who I was.”

“He doesn’t, not really. But, I’ve told him who he is and that the two of you are partners. I thought it might help. The really odd thing is, he never speaks. His vocal cords are intact, but he never says a word,” Marie said, her expression thoughtful.

“What do you expect me to do about it?” Napoleon demanded.

“I don’t know!” Marie complained, frustration evident in her voice. “You’re his best friend. He needs you.” she slammed her fist on his desk. “Ohhh, men!” she exclaimed. Turning away, she left the room in a huff.

He needs you, rang in Napoleon’s ears after she left. Truth be told, Napoleon wanted to be needed, to be useful. He wanted Illya to need him, not to be the self-contained individual who didn’t really need anyone. Sighing he got up from behind his desk and made his way to the infirmary.

“He’s not there,” an attractive nurse said as he started to enter Illya’s room. “He’s in the lounge.” She smiled, pointing down the hall to the room where patients could go to watch TV, play games, or read.

Thanking her with a nod and a smile, Napoleon headed in the direction she pointed. He stopped at the door and looked in. An attendant was fast asleep in a chair by the door. Illya, who had been promoted from sleepwear to street wear, sat at a nearby table with a chessboard, his expression serious. Looking up and seeing Solo, he flashed a brilliant smile, happy to see him. He still did not know Solo, but he remembered the man’s kindness.

Napoleon put a finger to his lips and motioned with a crook of another finger for Illya to follow. Illya glanced at the sleeping attendant before silently making his way to the door, turning a quizzical gaze on the man Marie said was his partner.

Napoleon reasoned that a change of scenery might help Illya regain his memories. Perhaps if Illya got out and went to places that he was familiar with, maybe his memory would return. So far, all he’d seen was the infirmary, which Napoleon had always felt was not exactly conducive to memory recovery. Taking the Soviet agent by the arm, Napoleon led him through the grey steel hallways and out of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

***

Strangely, in spite of the fact that Illya said not a word and did not appear to understand anything Napoleon said, the two men got along famously. Napoleon took him to a favorite restaurant, placing the order and conversing as if Illya could understand. Illya for his part, ate and smiled, happy to be anywhere except were he had been, and enjoying the sound of Napoleon’s voice.

Napoleon then drove across town to Illya’s apartment, using a spare key to gain entrance. He stepped aside, pulling on his bottom lip, and watched worriedly, wishing he had thought to ask Marie to join them.

Illya roamed the apartment, his expression one of puzzlement rather than recognition. He did stop and run his hand over the English horn, but other then that nothing appeared to be familiar. He went into another room, the bedroom, and Napoleon followed. 

He stopped by the side of the bed. Why had he been brought here? What was it that they wanted of him? His bottom lip began to tremble. It scared him, this not knowing. All the strange people. Could he trust them? He did like Solo though, he liked him very much.

Oh no, not again, the American thought, I can’t take it when you do that. Before he realized it, Napoleon crossed the room and pulled the dejected Russian in his arms. Sighing, Napoleon gently stroked his distraught partner on the back; Illya’s head tucked under his chin as he murmured what he hoped were comforting phrases. He knew what it was like to wake up and not know who you were and he’d give anything for Illya not to feel that way. 

Napoleon wondered why he suddenly felt the necessity to express his protectiveness of his partner. Had Illya been himself, Napoleon would probably have found himself on the floor for daring to console him. Somewhere inside this detached stranger was his partner, and until he emerged Napoleon would to do whatever he could to help him.

Napoleon was surprised when the normally reserved Russian brought his arms around him. His eyes widened in shock as Illya's hands roamed down to his rump, kneading and cupping his ass. He could feel a hard bulge as Illya’s groin pressed against his thigh, thrusting. Gripping the younger man’s arms, he pushed Illya away and looked intently into deceptively innocent blue eyes, the lower lip extended in a pout.

Illya began gently manhandling Napoleon’s jacket off, and Napoleon's eyes followed as his jacket slid to the floor. “Ah, Illya? What are you doing?” he asked, reaching down to pick up his jacket only to have his holster follow the jacket to the floor. “Stop it. This… this is not like you,” he said uncertainly, for all the good it did him. Illya understood not a word.

When Illya started nuzzling his neck, Napoleon let out a moan. It felt so good. The tie around his neck also made its way to the floor and busy hands were undoing the buttons on his shirt, working on releasing the shirttails from his pants. “No, Illya. Stop. Nyet. Cut it out,” he ordered, for all the good it did him, as he tried unsuccessfully to dissuade him. “You look like my partner, but you certainly don’t act like him,” Napoleon muttered as he frantically worked to redo the buttons as fast as Illya undid them. 

The next thing he knew, Napoleon was flat on his back upon the bed, his arms held captive at the side of his head. Shocked, he looked at the familiar face staring down at him, seeing the hunger lurking in the normally placid blue eyes. “Illya, think about what…mmph.” Soft lips covered his for a prolonged kiss. When he was able to focus again, Napoleon gasped, “Think about what you are doing. God, where did you learn to kiss like that?” The shocking realization that the Russian had sexual desires hit and he swallowed hard. “You need this?” he whispered. With that, he forced himself to relax, determined to let the Russian do as he wished.

The blue eyes changed from lustful, to puzzlement, didn’t Napoleon want to…, then on to delight. His hands once again worked to undo all the buttons on Napoleon’s shirt. Fingering the t-shirt underneath, he pushed it up out of the way, revealing a well-muscled chest, and sent the fingers of one hand up Napoleon’s side, and across his chest, stroking ever so lightly. A smile lit his face as the American’s breath caught when his thumb brushed over the nipple. 

“God that feels good,” Napoleon whispered, as a wet tongue ran over one nipple, sending a rush of pleasure all the way down to his groin. The talented mouth covered it, sucking until it stiffened, and then moved on extending the favor to the other. Napoleon’s eyes closed as he moaned, his body shuddering as enjoyment swept over him. 

While Illya’s talented mouth worked its way down Napoleon’s body, his fingers were not idle, they were undoing Napoleon’s belt, sliding the zipper down with a practiced ease that surprised Napoleon. This whole evening was turning into one of surprise. As good as those talented fingers felt, he wanted Illya to kiss him again. Rising to a sitting position, Napoleon pulled the smaller man up to claim the lush mouth, and then he let Illya assume control of the kiss. Illya’s mouth opened, his tongue probing. Napoleon drew the tongue into his mouth gently sucking. 

Soon the tongue was withdrawn, much to Napoleon’s regret, and hands were pushing him back to lie flat on the bed. Hands were at his slacks pulling them down and he lifted his hips to aid in their removal. Teasing fingers slid up the inside of Napoleon’s thighs, causing him to moan even more. Napoleon had lost the ability to think straight after the second kiss; all he had left was the ability to feel. Talented fingers were running lightly up his sensitive shaft, around the cock head, than down again, stroking, bringing him to hardness. His hands gripped the bed coverings, his rear arching off the bed, as the fingers cupped his dangling sacs, bringing them to fullness. A wet, warm mouth encased his erect and aching cock, the tongue swirling around the top, before sliding down taking him all in and sucking. Napoleon did his best to keep from thrusting too much into the Russian’s mouth, as he groaned with pleasure, excited beyond reason. Unable to hold back further, he came with a rush, finally collapsing from the sensations.

His chest heaving, Napoleon opened his eyes upon recovering, to see a fully clothed Russian sitting cross-legged on the bed beside him, a smug smile on his face. When he was able, Napoleon turned to his side. This was a first for him, to lose control of a sexual situation, to have someone overwhelm his sensual nature. 

Napoleon slid off the bed, slung off his shirt and removed the t-shirt rolled under his arms. His dark eyes watched as his partner’s facial expression changed from smug to wary. Kicking off shoes, slacks, and briefs, he approached the younger man, who scooted back warily. 

Napoleon climbed onto the bed and reached for the black turtleneck. “You pleasured me; it’s only fair that I return the favor.” He watched the blond head tilt to one side, not comprehending the words. Oh well, actions speak louder then words, Solo thought as he brought the sweater over his partner’s head. Napoleon swiftly relieved the younger man of the rest of his clothing, leveling the playing field. Using all the experience at his disposal, the American brought the Russian to full arousal. Judging by the look of ecstasy on Illya’s face, for he made no sounds, Napoleon was doing all the right things. When he came, his mouth open but no sound escaping, the Russian melted onto the bed thoroughly depleted.

***

Napoleon lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. How was he ever going to explain this to Illya when he finally got his memories back? The sound of his communicator broke through his thoughts. Hurriedly he scrambled on the floor, pulling his communicator from his jacket pocket. “Solo here,” he said quietly, glancing in the direction of the sleeping Russian.

“And where, might I ask, is here?” asked the voice of Alexander Waverly.

“Ah, sir, here is Illya’s apartment. I thought that the familiar setting might help bring back his memory,” Napoleon replied from his position on the floor.

“Very commendable of you. However it would be better if you informed the medical section before absconding with your partner next time,” Mr. Waverley chastised. “Did it work?”

Napoleon looked over at the Russian, lying wantonly on the bed, an arm thrown over his head, a leg bent, his limp penis resting against his thigh, looking so erotic it made him want to toss the communicator aside and have his way with the sleeping man. “No, sir. I’m afraid not,” Napoleon sighed.

“And what is Mr. Kuryakin doing at the present time?” requested Waverly.

“Sleeping, sir.”

“Ah, well. It has been a long day. Perhaps when he awakens you could return him.” The connection broke.

Napoleon stared at the communicator for a moment before putting it away. Returning to the bed, he was taken aback when Illya shifted, his head resting against Solo’s shoulder and an arm and leg slung over his body. Kissing the top of the blond head, Napoleon was thankful that he did not have to explain – not yet – not now.

The following week

Illya sat at a table in the lounge, contentment coursing through him. After several weeks, he was satisfied with the status quo. Everything he needed he had. When he was hungry, he had food. When he was tired, he had a place to sleep. When he needed more, then there was Napoleon.

Marie had told him his name was Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin and that he worked for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. She also told him that the dark-haired man was his partner, Napoleon Solo. He found some of the stories she told about their partnership unbelievable. Marie was nice, and he could understand her, but sometimes he needed something only Napoleon could give him. While he didn’t understand anything Napoleon said, he found the sound of his voice soothing.

Speaking of whom, Illya brightened, there was the man now, talking to a nurse. Getting up from the table, Illya silently made his way behind the American. All he had to do was breathe down Napoleon’s neck, and he would find his elbow taken and off they would go. Delight filled him as he was escorted outside U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. Napoleon would take him many places: the museum, the park, even a place Marie said was Staten Island. Then they would go back to an apartment, sometimes to the first one, other times to another. Napoleon always let him do whatever he wanted.

Tonight was no different. Napoleon took him to a place where there was music. Illya, his eyes bright, could have sat for hours listening to the music. The sax, the bass, and the piano – he found it speaking to his soul. When it was time to leave he was a little saddened, until they got to the apartment, the one he assumed belonged to Solo. The music still with him, Illya felt his needs heightened. The activities that night were wild and passionate.

***

Solo rushed into the medical section. He had just come back from a routine assignment. A nurse stopped him at the door. “Napoleon, it was just an accident. The bookcase fell…” He pushed past her to enter the room of his partner. 

Illya sat up in bed, his head bandaged. He looked up as the door opened. “There you are, Napoleon,” he said crossly, his arms folded across his chest as if it were his just due.

Napoleon’s mouth opened, not knowing what to say and the color drained from his face.

***

When Napoleon returned home that night, he paced his apartment floor, his fingers running through his hair. He wasn’t sure how he managed to get through the rest of the day. Even though he was glad Illya was back, he knew he would miss the other Illya that he’d come to know in the past few weeks. His mind kept going back to that night. Was it only two nights ago?

Napoleon had stopped to chat with one of the nurses before going to see his partner. He felt the Russian behind him. Just the feeling of Illya’s breath on the back of his neck made him excited. Turning he’d taken Illya by the elbow, and with a farewell smile for the nurse, led him out the building. Tonight would be special; he planned to take Illya to one of the Russian’s favorite nightspot. A certain jazz club he had known his partner to frequent. At this point, he was still trying to help Illya regain his memories.

Napoleon had spent the entire time watching Illya’s childlike enjoyment. It had fueled his desires, to see Illya’s flushed face, his lush lips, his eyes alight with pleasure and delight. Later when he took the Russian to his apartment, he had pulled out a record, setting it to play on his stereo, while he fixed drinks. Turning back he’d found the Russian, dancing sensually to the beat of the music. His eyes held a faraway look as he gracefully moved to the music. Illya stopped when Napoleon drew close and gave him a smile that literally took Solo’s breath away, before slipping into his arms. They had twirled around the room, moving ever closer until Illya’s arms were around his neck, their bodies so close he could feel the Russian’s heartbeat. As strange as it was for them to be dancing, it was then that he realized how much he would miss all this when Illya’s memory returned. They had stopped at the bedroom door and Illya pulled him inside. Once inside the room, Illya had been uncontrollably wild. They had done everything - Napoleon unable to refuse him anything.

Just remembering was making Napoleon hard. 

***

The next day Napoleon called in sick, unable to face Illya. Later that night, Meredith, in accounting, had turned up at his door with a large pot of chicken soup. Napoleon had not wanted to appear rude, so he invited her in. She'd been adamant about heating the soup up and so they had shared a meal together. Afterward he had feigned not feeling well, cutting the evening short. Meredith had insisted on washing the dishes and tucking him into bed, much to his embarrassment. The next day, she called to inform him that her ring was missing and must have fallen down the drain.

That was why Napoleon Solo, wearing a t-shirt, an old pair of slacks and in his stocking feet, was currently under the sink in his kitchen trying to loosen the drainpipe. When the doorbell rang, it startled him into a sitting position, causing him to bump his forehead on the inside of the cabinet. Crawling out, the wrench in one hand as he rubbed his forehead with the other, he made his way to the door just as someone started pounding on it.

“Napoleon, I know you are in there.” Illya’s voice sounded through the door.

Napoleon took a deep breath, before he opened the door to let his partner in. Illya brushed past him. “You have been avoiding me, Napoleon, and I want to know why?” Illya demanded when he got to the center of the room and turned back to his partner. He paused puzzled not only at his partner's attire, but by the tool he held in his hand. He pointed and asked, “What are you doing with that?”

Holding up the wrench, Napoleon replied, “What does it look like,” as he headed back to the kitchen. 

Illya followed at a leisurely pace, his irritation replaced by curiosity. “Do you even know what it is?”

Napoleon sat on the floor, preparatory to resuming his position under the sink. He looked at the instrument in his hand. Of course he knew what it was. “It’s a ….it’s a ….thingie,” he said waving it around before lying back down under the sink.

Illya leaned against the cabinet and looked down at his partner. “Just what are you doing?”

A muffled voice answered, “I’m retrieving a piece of jewelry from the trap.”

“Have you thought of calling in a professional?” Illya inquired as he squatted down, impressed that Napoleon knew what a trap was. “Shouldn’t you have,” he said just before the pipe came loose, flooding Napoleon’s face with water. “…a bucket?” Stifling his laughter, Illya reached up and pulled down a kitchen towel, handing it to a soaked Napoleon.

“Thank you,” Napoleon muttered as he levered himself out from under the sink, wiping his face. Of course, he’d thought of calling in someone, however, he had needed the distraction. He threw the towel under the sink, turned the trap over, shaking it until a ring clattered to the counter. He stared at it for a minute, before heading toward the living room, knowing he was unable to give Illya an answer that he would accept. He paused in the living room and sat heavily on the arm of his sofa.

Illya picked up the ring and followed his partner into the living room. He had no memory of the last few weeks. Only what the doctors and Marie Levell had told him. He still found it hard to believe that for the past few weeks he had not been able to communicate with anyone save Marie and…Napoleon. Now that he could, Napoleon was avoiding him and he wanted to know why. Now Napoleon sat, his normally neat hair mussed and wet, his shoulders slumped. Taking up his original complaint, Illya again asked, “Napoleon, I want to know why you have been avoiding me.

Napoleon, unable to look at his partner, felt his face redden. He said bluntly, “We had…we had …sex.”

Illya stood there in stunned silence, and then he laughed. “Very funny. You are joking, right?” He looked at Napoleon. “Tell me you are joking.” 

Napoleon turned toward him, his eyes miserable. “I’m not joking.”

“Are you insane!” Illya wanted to know.

“Quite possibly.”

Illya collapsed into a nearby chair. “I do not understand. Why would you want…what would possess you to…?” he asked, unable to get a complete sentence out.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Napoleon answered indignantly.

“Are you insinuating that it was mine?” Illya squeaked. “Why would I? I have never…” he insisted, his voice growing stronger. Illya jumped out of the chair moving to confront Napoleon. “I do not believe you,” he stated flatly. “What could I possibly have done that would have led us to have…sex?”

Napoleon stood, wanting to touch the lush lips and feel the silky blond hair as he ran his fingers through it. He held himself back, and said quietly, “You kissed me.”

Illya stared at him speechless…that was it…a kiss? True Napoleon was highly sexed…but a kiss? That led to having sex? With Napoleon? Illya found it all hard to believe. “It must have been some kiss,” he said after a moment, managing to keep his voice calm.

“It was,” Napoleon replied, equally composed now that the truth was out.

Illya looked away. Napoleon was the talented kisser, not he. Napoleon would not lie, not about something like this. “Couldn’t you have stopped me?”

“I’m not sure I wanted to. You were so unbelievably vulnerable and sexy at the same time.” Napoleon laughed softly in recollection.

“I don’t remember.” Illya shook his head as he walked to the door of the apartment and opened it. Pausing he turned back to say, “I do not know what to say. What you tell me is unbelievable. I…I…” He shook his head again before leaving, closing the door behind him.

“I know,” Napoleon said quietly to no one as his world crumbled around him.

***

That night in his apartment, Illya fell into a troubled sleep. He tossed and turned as his dreams took on a disturbing shape.

He saw Napoleon look up at him, his eyes wide with astonishment, as he lifted his mouth from the searing kiss. Napoleon was saying something, but he could not understand him. Napoleon was looking at him, his eyes accepting. His hands were on the buttons of Napoleon’s shirt, undoing them, opening the shirt and rolling up the t-shirt to feast his eyes on the broad chest lightly covered with hair. His thumb brushed over a nipple as he watched Napoleon’s face. What would Napoleon do? Would he make him stop? No, he was talking again. Softly. Illya brought his tongue to the nipple, licking…giving it the attention it so richly deserved before going to the other nipple and repeating the process. So nice…to feel the pink nubs harden under the assault of his tongue and lips.

Illya turned in his sleep and the dream changed.

There was music and there was Napoleon…holding him. His body was pressed close against the darker man, his arms tightly around the American’s neck, their feet moving to the music. He wanted him …with a driving need that knew no bounds. They were near the bedroom door; he pulled away and led his victim to the bed. Pure unadulterated lust possessed him, as he stripped his partner down. And Napoleon let him. He pushed Napoleon down on the bed, kicked off his shoes and fully clothed straddled him. 

Looking down at the smug smile on the handsome face, he sought to erase it with his mouth. His hands riffling the ever so well groomed hair, until it was no longer neat. He pulled his upper body away, breaking the kiss, delighted when Napoleon’s mouth followed trying to recapture the sensation. When Napoleon growled with frustration, he smiled and rewarded him with another blazing kiss, more intense than the last. He broke the kiss, sliding his lips down to the American’s throat. His hands trailed down the broad chest, stopping to rest on a tiny nipple, as it hardened under his touch, he moved his lips to cover it, swirling his tongue around it. Napoleon’s upper body arched up as moans issued from his mouth. This was what he wanted, Solo under him, frustrated, trembling with desire, and in his power. He was not sure why he wanted it, just that he did.   
He slid down, parting the American's legs to kneel between them. His fingers sliding down the center of the flat abdomen toward the staff that was now lying flat against it. Long, thick, and leaking profusely, he lapped at the tip, tasting the slight bitterness. Napoleon was now writhing uncontrollably; he considered taking him into his mouth and rejected it. That would end this all too soon. 

His eyes roamed the room, lighting on a jar on the bedside table. Reaching over, he picked it up. Looking down, he saw the apprehension on Napoleon’s face. Then Napoleon took the jar from him and opened it. Parting his legs, offering himself up. He took the opened jar and set it aside, using his hands to explore the willing body under him. His hands roamed as his mouth hungrily devoured everything in its path. Napoleon’s knee was bent, opening himself up delightfully. 

He softly stroked area beneath the balls, pleased with the shiver of pleasure that ran through his partner. His fingers dipped into the creamy contents of the jar, and he swirled it with his fingers, warming it, before coating the entrance, then penetrating with one finger. He looked up to check how Napoleon was taking it. 

Napoleon’s eyes were half shut, a glazed look of carnal lust showing. His finger invaded, caressed, and stroked the inside of the tunnel before striking and hitting the spot of molten pleasure that had Napoleon arching off the bed. Napoleon was moaning and voicing words that he could not comprehend. Just the sound of the American’s voice had him hard, oh so very hard. He continued, however, using additional fingers to circle and stretch the passage. His desire was spiraling out of control, and he backed away. 

His fingers trembled as he removed all his clothing, before kneeling once again between Napoleon’s parted legs. Grabbing a pillow and placing it beneath Napoleon’s hips bringing them up, he slid his arms under each knee bringing them to his shoulder, positioning his swollen and rock hard cock at the entrance… 

 

He sat up in bed with a start. His heart was beating fast, his stomach covered with semen. The dream seemed so real. Was it? Groaning, Illya knew he had to see Napoleon. Hurriedly he scrambled into his clothing, rushed out the door and flew down the stairs of his apartment building. Once he reached his car, he patted his pockets. Keys! He had forgotten his keys. Not wanting to waste time going to get them, he flagged down the first taxi he saw.

 

“Napoleon! Napoleon!” Illya called loudly as he banged on his partner’s door.

The door opened, a disheveled, bleary-eyed Napoleon, wearing only pajama bottoms, answered.

“I had the strangest dream,” Illya said as he brushed past the American.

“Come on in, why don’t you,” Napoleon muttered sarcastically, as he reset the locks on the door.

Illya was pacing the floor, running his hands through his hair.

Napoleon looked fondly at the wound-up Russian. “Illya, you’re hyperventilating… It must have been some dream,” he said softly as he sat on the arm of the sofa.

“It was. There was you…and me…us.” Illya continued to pace the room. He stopped, gazed at Napoleon in amazement. “We were…you let me…why?”

”I’m not sure,” Napoleon knowing exactly to what his partner was referring to responded truthfully, his eyes turned thoughtful. “It just…seemed to be… something you needed…something I needed to do for you.” He gazed intently at the Russian. “How do you feel about this?”

“Feel? I do not know. Right now... I am just…tired.” Suddenly Illya felt very drained. What with the powerful dream combined with the rush to get here, it finally caught up with him. “Perhaps I need to sleep.”

Napoleon, not knowing if he was doing the right thing, gently pulled his partner toward the bedroom, as he murmured, “per chance to dream?” He helped Illya out of his clothing, settling him in the bed and climbed in after him. Napoleon encircled him with his arms, spooning behind him, grateful that his partner was too tired to protest.

Illya rolled over, his arms automatically pulling Napoleon close. “You…care,” Illya said drowsily, feeling safe…secure. “Dangerous,” he murmured as his eyes closed and he relaxed.

“Perhaps.” Napoleon said softly into his partner’s ear, as he too drifted off to sleep, “I’ll risk it.” 

***

Napoleon woke up, lying on the far side of his bed, facing the wall. Something was wrong. Suddenly it came back to him. Illya was there…in his bed. He had been in his arms. Napoleon frowned. Why wasn’t he there now?

Napoleon turned over to lie flat. Next to him lay Illya wide-awake, stared at the ceiling, the covers hiding half of his bare chest. The American wanted to reach over and pull him close, but he didn’t. 

“Hi,” Napoleon said quietly, turning over, one arm curled under his head, the other prepared to reach out.

“Good morning,” Illya responded, then turned his troubled blue eyes to the man next to him.

Napoleon’s blood ran cold. Things were not looking good. Carefully staying on his side of the bed he asked, “What are you thinking?”

Illya returned his stare to the ceiling. “I’m not sure. It is still…sort of…jumbled.”

Napoleon remained silent.

“I don’t remember ever having done…what we did in my dream. It was last night that I dreamt it, wasn’t it?” The blue eyes returned questioningly back to the man next to him.

Napoleon nodded.

“We have actually had sex…together!” Illya said, his eyes back at the ceiling, his tone one of disbelief. His face wore a pinched look of concentration.

“And?” Napoleon prompted.

“I am trying to understand…why?”

Napoleon thought back, Illya had made the first moves. Napoleon remembered vaguely wondering why then, but he’d given in to enjoying himself and just went with the flow.  
Napoleon turned to lie on his stomach, both arms under his chin. His eyes were prickling.

Illya turned on his side, his body facing his partner’s, his head propped on one hand. Whys. There were so many whys. Not to mention what nows.

“You disappeared,” Napoleon spoke, his voice low. “They…they declared you dead…before I could adjust to that…you were back. I…” he paused, his voice choked, wanting to keep his voice composed. “It was a miracle.” 

Illya lay there quietly, regarding his partner.

“You were alive…” Napoleon brought a hand up to wipe his eyes. “And it wasn’t from anything I did on my part. I didn’t do anything.” He didn’t mention that he wasn’t allowed to do anything.

Illya gazed at him in astonishment. “You feel guilty!” 

Napoleon buried his head in his pillow, all the pent-up emotions causing the tears flowing.

“Is that why you let me…?” 

Napoleon, his face still buried, shook his head from side to side. Swiftly he slid out of the bed, making his way to the bathroom. Not even bothering with the light, he sat on the commode. What was wrong with him, crying like a girl? He was Napoleon Solo, head of section two, the man who sent agents out to be killed. Hell, he was ready to die for U.N.C.L.E.; he just wasn’t ready for Illya to do so.

He sat there sobbing in the dark, trying to get himself under control. The bathroom door opened, and he knew Illya was there with him when a hand touched his knee.

“When I woke up in the hospital,” Illya said softly. “I felt…so alone. So cut off…from everything. Nothing made sense.” He let out a sigh. “Come. Carrying on a conversation in a bathroom is…disquieting. Not to mention uncomfortable.” Illya got up from his squatting position in front of his partner and headed back to the bed. When he turned, Napoleon was standing in the doorway, not moving toward the bed. Illya went back, pulling Napoleon after him, coaxing him onto the bed. In a way, it was funny. He was in control, not his American partner. Napoleon was sitting against the headboard, his pajama clad knees drawn up, his face hidden. Illya sat next to him, letting the silence reign.

“I’m sorry,” came a muffled voice.

“Sorry for what? For caring…or for taking advantage of a sick man?” Illya asked amused. That did it; the dark head was up, the brown eyes glaring at him.

“I’m not like that,” Napoleon said harshly, his fist hitting the bed. “I’m not.”

“Neither am I,” Illya stated calmly.

“Then why did we…why did I…why did you…?” Napoleon demanded, unable to form a complete sentence.

Illya pulled up one knee, resting his chin upon it. Totally unaware of how desirable he looked just sitting there in his underwear. He had had plenty of time to think this over after waking up. “As I was saying,” he continued. “There I was, not knowing who I was, where I was…nothing. A stranger in a strange land.” He paused letting it sink in. “And there you were. Trying to help me through…whatever.” He frowned. “Only I did not want to be helped.” He held up a hand, seeing Napoleon about to enter the conversation. “I do not think I wanted you …in control. I…I think I wanted…needed to be the one taking the lead.”

“With sex!” Napoleon exclaimed in surprise.

Illya shrugged, contemplated the question and responded, “Sure, why not? It is an area in which you are an expert. Deep down, even though I didn’t know you…I knew you. If I could… control your responses, drive you crazy with desire…prove to you…” He let out a sigh, shaking his head. “I know it does not make any sense.”

“Well you certainly did that.” Napoleon broke in. “Prove to me what?”

“I do not know. I honestly do not know,” Illya said, turning around so they sat side by side.

“So where does that leave us?”

“Where would you like it to leave us, Napoleon?”

“I want you back,” Napoleon said firmly. Last night he had said he was ready to risk it. But-was he? “I want you back physically and mentally. And I did enjoy the physical side.” He couldn’t deny that. “Did you?”

Illya looked up startled. “Evidently. I think I enjoyed it very much.” He paused, glancing away, “Somehow that worries me.”

Napoleon snickered, “You’re not the only one.”

“Which brings us back to…what now?”

Napoleon leaned in, bringing their lips together. Lightly, without the searing passion they had previously experienced. Still. “You kiss very well.” 

“Of course I do,” Illya said smugly.

Napoleon growled. “One thing I do not understand. You could understand Marie, but you couldn’t or wouldn’t speak?”

Illya shrugged. “I had nothing to say?”

“But,” Napoleon persisted, not wanting to let it lie there. “Even in the throes of passion, you never let out a sound.”

Illya looked embarrassed. “I’m not sure why. I think it must be…ingrained. After all, in our profession it could prove fatal.”

“I’ve never found it a problem.”

Illya glared at him. “The problem is would it be safer to have sex with you or let you continue to seduce and make love to every woman you meet?”

Napoleon leaned close, whispering in Illya’s ear, “That’s up to you.” 

Illya slid down, his head touching the pillow, ignoring the reaction of his groin to Napoleon’s close proximity. Stretching his lithe body up fully. “You know, I found not knowing who I was quite freeing…allowing me to express myself.”

Napoleon’s eyes laughed as he looked down upon the Russian. “You must express yourself more often,” he agreed.

“Okay, I will,” Illya said, as he wrapped his hand around Napoleon’s neck, pulling his mouth down. His other hand guided his partner’s body atop him. After all, they could always finish this discussion later. Then again, he thought with a mental smile, what was there to discuss.


End file.
